Colin F. Jones


~ 1 ~

Tis so like a small volcano with lava rising up,
you cannot stop depression by emptying the cup.
It rises to the surface like a buoy you cannot sink;
that submerges just a little when it rises to the brink.
Tis like the pain of arthritis that comes and goes at will:
an invader nesting in your mind that is impossible to kill.
It is always there in residence and never knows defeat,
highly tuned to certain words which trigger it from sleep,
then suddenly it surges throughout the body to the brain,
overwhelming, overwhelming, in it’s urgency to claim,
every feeling, every vision every thought of tranquil peace,
with its constant irritations which never seem to cease.
Til finally subsiding leaving horror in our veins,
leaving slowly fading memories until emptiness remains.

~ 2 ~

In the silence where Hells breathing is the only sound you here,
which isn’t really something which vibrates in your ear,
there is a darkness which is darkness without it being dark,
that is dank and coldly clammy yet humidified and stark,
like a spiders web that’s draping and wrapping one inside.
Each sticky strand a burning wire which struggles to divide,
each nervous thought and pattern from it’s junction link,
causing funny kinds of shivers and blotches where you think.
There’s a vacuum that’s imploding causing outer pressure sweat,
to burst upon the forehead where throe is growing yet.
From your skin the blood retreats and floods the screaming brain,
and the sickness in your belly that your body cant contain,
brings bitter tears and anguish with cries of ill despair,
that suddenly you awaken finding none of them are there.

~ 3 ~

Well there were oranges and lemons with the juices bursting out,
and running down the atap roofs and through the barrel spouts,
that shot out red tomatoes like hurtling lumps of steel,
that splattered on the footpath beneath a steel tracked wheel
where bodies all lay bloated in pools of crimson blood;
where a grinning little hostile in the middle of it stood.
Then suddenly I am floating across the battlefield,
with a little wooden spear and a bible for a shield.
My legs are running backwards but the carrot on a string,
keeps me moving forward where the bullets wine and sing
and I see the world’s great leaders lined up in a row,
each with a thousand arrows but not a single bow,
and from each mouth runs orange juice contained in lemon skins,
as they sit around a pool of blood betting on who wins.

~ 4 ~

And the creeks are running crimson and the rivers running red,
and all around the white house there are bodies lying dead.
Tomatoes pop from fountains and splatter in the streets,
where the soldiers come home marching with slippers on their feet/
No one seems to hear them as they slip and slide along,
as the great men in their towers still plan battles with the tongue.
The parliamentarians are sitting on an island in a mist;
all rolled up together like a white knuckled little fist.
The cotton wool in their ears keeps out all the sound,
while in the crimson rivers all the veteran soldiers drown.
There is Hitler there with Clinton, Stalin and the rest,
Rows of little ass-holes all like aliens in a nest;
they are all there past and present writing books about their fame,
as the nations of their glory go gurgling down the drain.

~ 5 ~

There is Castro they all envy in the Cuba they all love,
whose portrait of a crow looks more like a pure white Dove.
There are nations all over Earthland that have seen their peoples slain
yet still they plot and scheme to repeat it all again.
Sometimes it’s floating bubbles with faces in each one,
I can see their eyes all gleaming though the light in them gone,
and then they burst into confetti that quickly turns to tears.
And the monsoon rain is falling and a truck is grinding gears;
the mud is thick and rising above giant rubber wheels
that are turning like a mixer that suddenly reveals
legs and arms just dangling from a blown out tank
that is covered with the horrid mud – smelling foul and rank.
I’m running, oh, I’m running chased by a giant moth,
but my speed is less quick than the slowest sloth

~ 6 ~

I fall into my sleeping pit among the worms and seep,
where my buddy comes and wakes me from a restless sleep.
And I’m munching on some biscuits and everything is green,
until the flares light the wire and I hear somebody scream.
Then silence, then just blackness, Hell I must be dead,
and… who is that shaking me, “come on get out of bed.”
Again I’m munching biscuits and the rain is pouring down,
and I see my buddies face marked in a furrowed frown.
There’s flame that is blinding, worms all fried and black,
and I wake up for a moment thinking my buddy had come back.
But he’s dead, yes he’s dead he died in Vietnam,
“Hey, Johnny grab your rifle we’ve gotta catch the tram,
‘cause your missus mate, she waiting with your little son
and ha, wont she be happy to know that we have won.

~ 7 ~

Drifting ever drifting, through spaces filled with smoke,
watching eggs from out of space hit the ground and spill their yoke.
And there’re dark spots of destruction from another war
that my father and his father on this barren landscape saw.
Still drifting, ever drifting over landscapes brown and dead,
where from butchered bodies of brave soldiers souls have quietly fled.
There is the playing of the bagpipes and the raising of the flags,
and screaming wingless Eagles clinging vainly to the crags.
There are lots of wailing children, whose parents are all dead,
and dirty lifeless little babies whose blood has soldiers fed,
that they can keep on killing, raping and much more,
for they are no longer human in the chaos of the war.
And they carry home their horrors still screaming there inside,
and try to come to terms with the lucky ones who died.

~ 8 ~

They streak across the sky like locomotives in a row,
their fiery tails like rockets on bonfire night you know.
The pretty patterns of the tracers paint pictures in the sky,
and paint horrid little portraits on the chests of those who die.
And the blood that oozes from them like a tomato full of holes,
juice dripping thick and crimson from their noses and their bowel’s
is the substance of their essence that dries into the ground,
that who they were just soaks away without a bloody sound.
“What are we doing here Harry!! What the Hell is this about”?
But it’s a faint and far away expression a sort of feeble shout.
“Oh Hell I’ve lost my hat and I’m due now on parade!”
My guts are churning over like they’re full of marmalade,
I am screaming, I am screaming “oh God where is my hat!”
And my mind is filled with blinding light, and ra-ta-tat-tat!!

~ 9 ~

Drifting, ever drifting to where ever I might go,
but I see the Major pointing towards a bloke I know,
and he turns into a pumpkin all flabby and obscene,
with translucent head and hollow eyes burning yellow-green.
He looks not like a soldier nor anyone I know,
but his VC eyes are glaring and I know he is my foe.
“Hey wake up! You were dreaming, seems nearly all the night.
You are keeping me awake so I had to halt your fight.
Look at you, you’re sweating; must have been a wild dream,
For sometimes you seem alarmed and oft I hear you scream!”
And I answer, “It’s just something that disagreed with me,
something in the vegetables I have eaten for my tea.”
It’s calmer now the sun is up a light through my window shines,
and I can see a little robin flitting through the jasmine vines.

~ 10 ~

I used to go to Anzac Day; I was a member of the club;
getting drunk and talking shit going from pub to pub.
I even served on boards you know with other wartime vets,
living out those past events and all those old regrets.
They say it keeps the dream alive to aggravate the pain,
by reliving all those past dismays sad thoughts to retain.
But now I know it’s bullshit to wallow in such rot
for half of what we think we are, we are bloody not!
What we are, are people, with a duty to perform,
helping folk who in despair live a life forlorn.
If all I do is think of self and dwell on sadder things,
that to my kids and other folk lack of resilience brings,
then all I’ve done in life you know I have done in vain,
by passing on the seeds of wrath that offers them no gain.